


Missing in Action

by Astronut



Category: Star Wars Legends: New Jedi Order Series - Various Authors, Star Wars Legends: X-Wing Series - Aaron Allston & Michael Stackpole
Genre: Angst, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:21:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23726737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Astronut/pseuds/Astronut
Summary: A romance blooms amidst a devastating war.
Relationships: Inyri Forge/Wes Janson
Kudos: 10





	1. Part I: Absence

**Author's Note:**

> Please do not repost without permission.

Missing in Action

Part 1: Absence

(Before Vector Prime)

Soft lighting illuminated the pseudo-wood paneled walls, highlighting the holos that hung in tidy columns and rows. A multitude of faces smiled out from these holos, the glimpses of frozen happiness creating a static background for the otherwise bustling bar. Her face was not on those walls. 

The holo covered walls belonged to a small bar just outside and a couple of levels down from Silvante Air Base on Coruscant. Brightly lit, garish glowpanels outside declared it to be the Rogue Roost. To the pilots of Silvante, it was home. Here they could toast their victories and drown their sorrows, all under the watchful eyes of the Heroes of Rogue Squadron whose holos adorned the bar. 

A Wraith had once entered the Roost, and although enamored with the bar’s atmosphere, he had felt something was missing. In a bold impersonation of an old Imperial holostar, he had asked the owners where his holo was, saying that after all, the Wraiths were just as good of pilots as Rogues. It turned out that the Wraith was a rather good flyer, and flew almost four meters as the proprietors tossed him out the door. The event hadn’t discouraged the Wraiths from continuing to patron the bar, after all this was a place for pilots. The owners saw to that. 

Tonight a group of pilots sat in one of the large booths, specifically installed to accommodate a full squadron, toasting a rookie lucky enough to earn his first assignment. One of the owners sat behind the bar, watching the group toasting the unfortunate rookie who would soon find out that he would be paying the tab for this celebration, in typical pilot welcome. The owner smiled sadly, noting that the booth they had chosen sat directly under the group of holos depicting Rogue Squadron newly reformed after the capture of Coruscant. Like that squadron of old, this new group would face many hardships and many deaths in the coming days. Even in a time of peace, piloting was a dangerous profession. Her holo should been hung above that booth. 

“Wes, quit staring at whatever pretty girl you’ve spotted and make yourself useful,” Hobbie grumbled as he passed Wes, carrying two foaming mugs of lum to a couple seated at a table near the Red Squadron holos. 

Picking up a cloth, he began rubbing invisible spots off the already shining bar. He had never asked whether Hobbie had noticed that her picture never appeared on these walls, and in typically Hobbie fashion, Hobbie had never said a word about it. 

They were toasting the rookie’s future now, praising his skills in the sims and his future successes. What they didn’t tell him is that he’d probably die within his first five missions. They didn’t tell him that death would follow him everywhere. They didn’t even tell him that he’d have to find a way to cope. 

Wes straightened, throwing his rag into a near by bin just as Hobbie cleared the bar with a stack of dirty glasses and bottles. The stack teetered precariously as Hobbie jerked back to avoid colliding with Wes. “I swear, even with out the X-Wings and the lasers and blaster bolts, you’re going to be the death of me one of these days,” the perpetually mournful pilot moaned. 

“Even my sharpest wit couldn’t slay you,” Wes grinned, happy at finally find something to take his mind off his troubles. He always thought humor was the best coping mechanism. “After all, it takes a certain level of intelligence to appreciate a good jab to the heart.” 

“It certainly takes more intelligence than of a six year old to run a bar. Here,” he shoved a tray and a bucket into Wes’ hands. “Go clean Table Eight. I don’t know why I keep you around, you can never do anything without me or somebody supervising.” 

Wes smiled jauntily. “You know you couldn’t do this with out me. Face it, you’re stuck with me for the rest of you life. And with the Bacta supply secure, that could be a long, long time. Unless you crash again, and then you’ll use enough bacta to shorten everybody’s life spans.” He turned and began making his way to the table in question. 

“I hate you,” Hobbie muttered to Wes’ retreating back. 

Wes turned and dropped to one knee, spreading his arms out wide and splashing soapy water on the floor. “But I love you!” 

Hobbie just glared as a few of the newer patrons blinked and then laughed at Wes’ dramatic confession. Those who frequented the bar ignored the pair of retired pilots, immune to their antics. 

Having succeeded in getting at least one laugh, Wes returned to his feet and made his way to Table Eight. He approached it cautiously, carrying the bucket and tray as if they were made of heavy durnium instead of simple, lightweight plastiform. There was nothing imposing about the table itself, but the holos on the wall were a different story. 

Table Eight was home to the last holos from Wes’ and Hobbie’s personal collections. While there were holos of newer Rogues courtesy Gavin Darklighter adorning the walls by Table Twelve, these were the holos of the old Rogues’ final days in the squadron. One showed the pilots all dressed up for Luke’s wedding. A second showed the same Rogues in the same clothes looking decidedly more tattered and worn after the ceremony. Another showed the celebration after the desperate attempt at Yaga Minor, another a quiet moment on flight deck of the _Peregrine_ , while yet another showed the party for Wedge’s retirement. Yet oddly, she was missing from all of these holos. 

He sighed and sat heavily down on the bench, fiddling with the dirty glasses as he idly stacked them on the tray. Wes had convinced the world around him a long time ago that the best way of coping with the vicious life of fighter pilot was laughing. He could make anyone laugh and forget their troubles, even the battle weary General Wedge Antilles. What he hadn’t told anyone was that he had found something better, something that could make him forget even his darkest days. He had found her. 

Crumpling a used napkin, he glanced down at it and then smoothed it out. Someone had written on it. Just a simple profession of admiration and a phone number. Staring at the wall where her holo should have been, he plucked a pen from his apron, grabbed a clean napkin, and began to write. 

Finishing his note, he read it once more. Briefly, he wondered if a messenger service would be willing to carry a napkin to Rogue Squadron’s forward base before he crumpled it violently. Tossing it onto the table, he finished cleaning Table Eight, leaving its surface spotless except for the crumpled note. Picking up his tray, he returned to the counter and began serving customers. Most people felt that they had to regale their bartender with their woes, and Wes Janson had a gift for cheering people up, even if he could no longer cheer himself up. 

Noticing Wes return to his place at the bar, Hobbie checked the status of Table Eight, noting the errant napkin. Opening his mouth to berate his friend again, he shut it, noticing the ink present on the napkin. Un-crumpling it, his eyes traced the handwritten lines. When he finished, he sadly shook his head. Walking behind the bar, he passed Wes with a forced smile and entered their small, shared office. There, he opened his desk drawer and placed the napkin inside. He knew that his friend would wan the napkin one day, just as he would want the holos that remained un-hung, stacked in the drawer. 

_Dear Inyri,_

_I hear you’re a Major now. You know, I was a Major when I retired. Hobbie will tell you I’ve always been a Major, a Major Pain. I hope you’re taking good care of my call sign, I hate to think that you’re dishonoring the Rogue Five title. I know you won’t, but I’m obligated to tell you that, it’s in the Rogue Five Rule Book, honest, ask Hobbie or Tycho. Anyway, I hope the pirate hunting is going well. Gavin says they’re crafty little buggers. He’s been by the bar. You should stop by sometime, I think you’d like it. Lots of sabacc and idiotic pilots for you to swindle, berate, and beat. You’d bring a little spice to the joint. Sadly, the most action we get here is some occasional drunken boasting and Hobbie running around like a myock with his tail on fire. Hopefully you’re not seeing much action either. I mean that both ways._

_Just take care._

_Wes Janson_

_P.S. I wish you were here._


	2. Part II: Memory

Part II: Memory

(During Onslaught)

“It’s your turn to babysit,” Hobbie said, slapping an empty mug on the counter in front of his business partner. “I can’t get him to see reason. I can understand drowning your misery, but he’s practically pickling it. You try talking to him.” 

Operating a bar came with several problems. While there were business concerns like supply issues, permits, and staffing, this was one of those problems that only come with running a bar: What to do with the drunk guy in the corner. 

Today’s drunk guy sported a disheveled attire; a rumpled black vest over a white shirt stained in so many place it was now an interesting shade of yellow. A bit of blood had hardened to his chin from a split lip gained by verbally abusing some hotshot X-Wing jock. His bloody knuckles displayed evidence of the resulting fight. While Wes and Hobbie had thrown the offended pilot out, they had been forced to retain the belligerent drunk. After all, it wasn’t everyday the former Chief of State asked them to babysit her husband. 

“What am I so suppose to do,” Wes hissed while idly polishing a few water spots off a glass, “cheer him up with Wookie jokes? I’ve got a great one. So this Wookie walks in to a bar…”

Hobbie rolled his eyes. “Wes, don’t be an idiot. As much as I wouldn’t mind him shooting you, I really don’t want to clean up the mess.” 

“At least it would get a reaction out of him. One that doesn’t consist of demanding more whiskey and picking fights with the guys from High Flight,” the former pilot grumbled, tossing his rag on Hobbie’s head. 

Snagging a lum for himself, he meandered towards the corner where Han Solo sat at Table Two. Wes winced when he realized where the grieving pilot had chosen to drink away his woes. Sitting under the accusing eyes of the mostly dead Red Squadron wasn’t the happiest place to be in this bar. 

“You again,” Han muttered, taking another swig from his drink. “Unless you’ve got my refill there, take a hike.” 

“Nope, this one’s all mine. I have to get what I can before you drain us dry. I’m afraid all I have to offer you is a joke.” Wes pulled out the chair across from Han and sat. 

“Tell you what, if it’s bad, I’ll tell you to get lost and then blast you. If it’s good, I’ll laugh and then just blast you,” the drunken smuggler said, fuzzily trying to tug his blaster out of his holster. 

“All right, fair enough. As long as I get that laugh, that’s the important part you know,” he sipped his own drink, one eye monitoring Han’s progress with the blaster. “So, this guy walks into a bar and walks up to a pilot sitting, sipping his drink. Now this pilot is rather heavy set, and the guy decides to have a bit of fun at the pilot’s expense. So he says, ‘You must be a pretty awful pilot to need all of that crash padding under your flightsuit.’ So what does the pilot do?”

“Does this joke have a punch line, or do I get to punch you?”

“Getting there. The pilot punches the guy in the stomach so hard his guts are trying to worm their way back out. And then he says to the guy, ‘No, it’s just protection against my awful sense of humor.’” Wes smiled at the holo that hung near his head and pointed. “That was Piggy. One kriffin’ good wingman.” 

Han gave a snort of amusement and then returned his attention to his drink, the blaster forgotten. 

“Okay, I’ve got another one. This Wookie is doing a few repairs on a snowspeeder…” He trailed off as he registered the blaster pointed steadily at his heart. 

“It’s not nice to joke about the dead,” Han said, the stench of his breath suddenly the only indication of his drunken state. 

“Easy there, Han.” He held up his hands, displaying open palms. “You didn’t seem to mind me reminiscing about Piggy. He’s pretty dead. Thought maybe you’d like to remember something funny about Chewie for a change.” 

“I don’t want to remember anything about Chewbacca,” Han growled, setting his blaster down in order to swipe a shot off a passing tray. Hobbie glared as the former smuggler downed the drink and then walked away to retrieve a new one, shaking his head. 

“I can understand that,” Janson replied, thinking of how her holo still didn’t appear on the bar’s walls. 

“No, no you can’t. Her highness doesn’t understand either, thinks I need a blazing committee to discuss my feeling,” Han growled, staring blankly at a picture of Garven Dreis standing besides his T-65. 

Wes stared at a second picture, one of a female Twi’lek who flew with the squadron long ago. But he did not see her curving hips nor her seductive, intelligent smile, nor even Doc’s lekku snaking to the ground. In his mind, he saw Inyri’s slender body, her sharp, sarcastic smirk, and her long brown hair. Although it had been years since he had last seen her, his memory of her was still crisp as the holos on the wall. 

Han slid his glass back and forth between his hands, lost in his thoughts. “All those years I spent with Chewie, I don’t think I ever told him…” he trailed off and failed to catch his glass. It skidded off the table, shattering on the floor. 

Wes didn’t care about the sparkling glass or the dirty looks Hobbie was shooting him from where he was pouring drinks. He knew what he should have told Inyri that day, and the memory of her walking away tore fresh wounds. “It’s always the things we don’t say that we regret the most,” he whispered hoarsely, then took a long pull of his lum. 

The man across from him nodded wearily in agreement. “That, and the things we never did. It eats at me everyday, not knowing.” Han’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Not knowing if I had to relive that day, whether I’d choose to loose Anakin or Chewie.” The alcohol finally overwhelmed the aging smuggler, and his head drifted to the side as he fell into a light sleep. Wes sat alone, lost in vivid memories of that day and wistful thoughts of what could have been. 

Glancing mournfully in the direction of the men sitting quietly at Table Two, Hobbie put away his comm. While he knew that his friend would never shy from a fight, now was not the time to respond to Wedge’s call. Through years of friendship, he knew that laughter had been what had kept Wes alive all these years. The Wes Janson at Table Two was not the cheerful prankster that laughed at death, nor was it even the Wes Janson who vaped his enemies with icy cold resolve. No, the Wes Janson at Table Two was just as much of a shell as his drunken companion and until he was whole, fighting the Yuuzhan Vong would just have to wait. 


	3. Part III: Regret

Part III: Regret

(During Star by Star)

“That’s it people, step lively now!” Wes shouted over his shoulder as he throttled the dilapidated freighter’s engines to full. 

The scream of the engines nearly drowned out the wail of a crying child and the shrieks of fear originating in the rear cargo hold. Another couple dashed up the ramp, dragging a small child, when suddenly they were knocked to the ground by a large, angry Weequay who proceeded to enter the cargo bay. Abruptly, the Weequay stopped and back slowly back down the ramp. From the corner of his eye, Wes could see Hobbie standing guard at the entrance, blaster drawn. Hobbie motioned for the Quarren couple to enter, maintaining his steely gaze on the Weequay. 

From his port viewport, Wes could see the next family already ducking out of the bar and dashing up the ramp. Bursts of light illuminated the lettering spelling out Rogue Roost on the bar’s hand painted sign. Far above the planet, a battle waged, sending the planet’s denizens into panicked chaos. A family of humans ran from the bar, a viewport on the building next door shattering behind them. Around the freighter, an unruly mob began to converge. The few blaster shots that lit the darkened alley no longer deterred them. The ramp hissed shut. 

As Wes completed the last few items on the preflight, Hobbie pushed his way into the cockpit, sealing the door behind him. The silence was startling. Outside, a couple thrust a small child towards the freighter, tears streaming down their faces, mouths open in silent, pleading screams. A young girl, forelocks of her dark hair dyed blue, threw herself out off an elevated walkway, landing hard on the viewport, mere meters from Wes’ face. She slowly slid off to the ferrocrete below, but the look of terror remained ingrained in his mind. 

Closing his eyes, he pulled up gently on the yoke, trying to forget that his engines were very likely burning much of the desperate crowd below. In his mind’s eye he saw the girl’s face merge with the face missing from all of those holos that had once adorned the bar. He jerked his lids open, distracting himself by concentrating on the quickly approaching balls of flame and debris. 

Hobbie broke the silence. “I wish we could have taken more of them,” he said sadly. 

Wes sighed. “I know. But you and I both did the calculations. Even one more person would have put us over maximum weight and taking off only to crash back down wouldn’t have done anyone any good.” 

“I know. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

Wes glared at his friend before returning his attention to flying. “I’m not beating myself up over leaving behind half of Coruscant. We’re lucky Wedge gave us that heads up in time for us to find a ship. I am, however, beating myself up over leaving those holos. Now the galaxy will be forever denied that fantastic shot of my good side.” 

“Your jokes don’t work when you’re being this sarcastic. In fact, most of them haven’t worked since we started that bar. Maybe it’s a good thing the Vong are here to wipe it off this miserable planet.” 

“No, the bar was a good thing. Vong are never a good thing.” Banking gently as not to upset the refugees even more, Wes realigned their course to sneak out through a less intense area of battle. Hobbie was right, in a way. Life had gotten a let less funny with the arrival of the Vong, but the decline had begun not with the invasion, but with the decisions made years ago. Decisions about the bar, the squadron, and her. 

Most of the people on the freighter were leaving everything behind. While Wes was now leaving the bar behind, much of his life had been left behind years ago. The terrified faces today would haunt him forever, just as every kill and lost friend occasionally bloodied his dreams. But allowing her to leave, allowing her to return to the Rogues was the one thing he regretted the most, the one thing that haunted him even in waking. 

“Twelve skips to starboard,” Hobbie barked, busy programming the navicomp. 

“I see them. Wish this thing had guns so I could vape them from the sky.” He should have vaped Gavin. He had come asking for her assistance, begging her to remain in the squadron to train the rookies. And Wes had let her leave without a second thought, never telling her of his emotions, his plans, his dreams. Wrenching the craft into a sharp climb, he threaded his way through the minefield. Behind him, several of the skips exploded. The rest hung back. 

Hobbie was right. He couldn’t allow that regret to dominate the rest of his life. In all likelihood the rest off his life wouldn’t be very long at all with the Vong in town. Wes Janson didn’t mope; that was Hobbie’s job. Wes Janson lived every moment of his life to the fullest, making sure to have more fun than the guy trying to kill him. Not that was too hard considering the Vong’s culture. From his pocket, he extracted a small holo of a dark haired woman and lodged its upper corner under the fire control cover. 

He smiled at the holo and then at Hobbie. “So, where to? I vote Endor. We can let off the passengers to enjoy some exotic forest hospitality and pick up some of the furry little war machines. And we’ll need rocks, lot’s of rocks.” 

Groaning, Hobbie punched in the final coordinates before pulling the lever to trigger the jump to hyperspace. “We’re going to Ralltiir, actually. They’re supposedly accepting refugees and I have a few strings I can pull if they aren’t. And while I understand your juvenile humor centers on Ewoks, why do we need rocks?” 

“A great Jedi once said ‘Fight fire with fire’ so I figure it’ll be best to fight skips with rocks. And who better to throw rock than Ewoks?” 

“I’m sure that was not a Jedi who said that and we’re not fighting the Vong with rocks.” 

Wes ignored his friend. “We can get a whole squadron of them with little rock throwers and then go find Wedge and Rogue Squadron and show them how real pilots fly.” 

Hobbie smiled slightly as Wes continued to plot out his insane scheme. He smiled not at the old Ewok routine, but the small holo of Inyri now pinned to the cockpit dash. While many were now leaving their future behind, he knew Wes was speeding headlong towards his own future. Leaning back in his chair, Hobbie settled back to enjoy the ride. 


	4. Part IV: Loss

Part IV: Loss

(During Rebel Stand)

The brew served on Borleias tasted more like rotten guirt mixed with some of Cubber’s Special Solvent than any form of alcohol with which Wes was familiar. He would much rather be drowning his sorrows in some of that delicious sunfruit brandy he had conned out of an old friend on Taanab, but with Wedge’s authoritarian restrictions on its use, the local rotgut would have to do. 

It had been a while since he had last drowned his sorrows alone. Hobbie had always been there, ready with a supportive squeeze of the shoulder or a disdainful glare of annoyance. Things seemed too quiet without the mournful pilot. Although Hobbie never said much, he usually found the right words at the right times, even if it was only to present an opportunity for Wes to tease him, thereby brightening both of their moods. Without his best friend around, Wes felt distinctly lost in despair. 

Unexpectedly, it had been Tycho that offered to sit with Wes and help him forget his pain. They had never been close friends, Wes preferring the company of Wedge or Hobbie, but it was Tycho that knew the pain of not knowing where a friend, where a loved one, was or whether they were even alive. Wedge had begged off, citing work to be done, and Wes knew by the tired lines of his face, by the brown eyes that no longer shown brightly, that not even Iella saw much Wedge anymore, even when he was at her side. 

This war was wearing them all down. In Wedge’s case, the wear came from the inside, eating at his spirit until he simply existed as the General, a shell of the real Wedge Antilles. Even Tycho, who had been reshaped and hardened under the careful attention of Ysanne Isard, showed signs of cracked defenses; after witnessing Wes’ breakdown, he had slipped away, probably to write to Winter. Wes didn’t mind, he was alone. 

Wes could even feel himself changing. He could feel the war sanding away defenses built long ago so that he became a ball of pure emotion. He hadn’t hid his expression well when Wedge had broken the news to him. A conversation that had started with jokes about young pilots and responsibilities had quickly turned to heartache and pain. The two friends had offered a pinch of surprise and then poured sympathy and comfort, but amidst the turmoil of Borleias, it wasn’t enough. He still felt lost in a starless sky of grief, knowing that there would be no light to guide him. 

The jungle of Borleias screamed, squawked, and hooted with activity as its brave defenders tried desperately to get some sleep before the inevitable morning raid by the Vong. Unable to sleep, Wes sat with his drink on the roof, watching the stars. Somewhere in that sky was Coruscant. Somewhere on that planet was his bar, still decorated with the holos of the dead. Wes knew the Vong honored their dead and wondered fancifully what the Vong would make of his own way of honoring the dead. But holos were lost to the Vong, the bar was lost to the Vong, and the planet was lost to the Vong. Somewhere on that planet, even a portion of his heart was lost to the Vong. 

And the Vong would pay. That remained Wes only point of reference to guide himself out of this mess. They would pay. It was their turn to loose their planet, their friends, their family. 

Slipping his datapad out of his pocket, he choked down the rest of his drink. He had a message to write before going back to his room to pass out. 

_To the Dour One:_

_One squadron of A- and E-Wings, one cargo frigate, and more supplies than a jawa could make off with in month. Beat that. But being the kind and generous friend that I am, I am willing to concede you the victory if you manage to dig up some decent alcohol. Taabian fruit brandies were the best I could do and the local stuff is nasty. Clearly, we should have saved our stock before abandoning the bar. Oh, and why I’m thinking of it, Wedge and Tycho say ‘Hi’ and that they may have duplicates of the holos in their own collections. They also say never to show your ugly face around here. They don’t want you. Really, that’s what they said._

_Honestly, they could use you. They could use an entire platoon of Ewoks with rocks. They could use any help at all. This war is horrible, I don’t know if I can take another moment of it, except for I want to make the Vong pay._

_I could use you, too. She’s gone._

_Wedge told me today when I asked about her. Gavin reported her MIA, but we both know what that means. She was shot down over Coruscant during the evacuation. It would be ironic if she crashed into the bar; my home and my love destroyed in one fiery burst. Sounds like a proper tragedy for a proper Rogue to endure. Don’t tell Wedge I said that. In fact, don’t tell Tycho either._

_It’s funny, I was going to tell her this time. I was going to tell her that I loved her and that we should stick together, just as I should have before she returned to the Rogues. I should have asked her to stay. Now I’ll never have the chance. I should have hung up her holo on that wall long ago._

_See, without you to pick up the slack I become down right dour myself. There’s a perfectly beautiful goddess here and I can’t get in the mood to chase her properly. It’s all your fault. Of course, she’s armed with a lightsaber and a rather cranky father, so maybe it’s for the best._

_Anyway, hope your dealings on Ralltiir are going well. Just take over the planet if you have to, I know you want your very own Hobbie World. If you need help, I have this friend who’s a tribal chief. You should hear his warriors cry ‘Yub Yub.’_

_Get your six over here. I need you._

_Wes_


	5. Part V: Changes

Part V: Changes

(During the Unifying Force)

Transparisteel crunched under his booted feet and occasionally there was an odd squelching noise as he encountered some type of Vong slime. The air on Coruscant hung thick with humidity, more than Wes had felt on this planet since the days after the storm that had wrested the planet from the Empire’s grasp. Perhaps it was fitting then that today it was so humid, since the New Republic had just won the planet from a new enemy. Even if the New Republic wasn’t the New Republic anymore. 

Wes wasn’t the same man either. Although still noted for his unrelenting juvenile humor, his heart was heavier than it had been in many years. The playful mask had always hidden his fears and sorrows, but now it hid the pain of heartbreak from which he still hadn’t recovered. 

The bar Wes had once owned with Hobbie wasn’t the same. It still stood, somehow dodging the orbital barrage that had rained down on the planet, but it no longer looked comforting. Alien plants and fungi wrapped and coiled their way around the front of the building, obscuring the Rogue Roost sign that once hung proudly. The bar, like the rest of the galaxy, had become darker and deadlier. 

Wes carefully forced his way past a chitinous vine extruding long, sharp spikes and ducked inside. Here, the shaping had progressed slowly. A thick orange slime coated most of the surfaces, but tables and chairs still lay upended as they had lain when the bar had been evacuated. A few glasses even hung above the bar intact save for their new orange hue. More importantly, the holos of the Rogues still hung on the walls. 

Slowly, he approached the booth once called Table Five. It no longer hosted Rookie-toasting squadrons, instead the carcass of a small furred creature with big teeth lay rotting it a tangle of exposed stuffing. The tabletop itself was missing, used as a shield during the frantic evacuation. Situated above the booth, several holos dripped with slime. Oddly, a few of the lower holos had been wiped clean in places, the faces of the heros of the past overseeing the bar once more. Reaching his hand out, he aligned his fingers with one of the smears, touching the transparisteel almost reverently. 

Looking down, he noticed one of the holos had fallen, apparently long before the Vong slime had grown. Picking it up, he wiped it on his black and yellow flight suit, adding orange to the obnoxious mix of color. The holo displayed Rogue Squadron as it had been during Corran Horn’s first funeral, before Wes had rejoined the squadron. He smiled sadly at the holo, noting Wedge’s determined fire and Gavin’s shy slump. They had changed as well. 

“Am I in that one?” a horse voiced asked. 

Wes spun, slipping his blaster from its holster to aim at the thin figure now standing between himself and the door. But, as recognition set in, the blaster fell from his hand. 

She wore a mismatch of bedraggled clothes that hung from her thin body. Shoulders and ribs jutted at sharp angles to the cloth, emphasizing her emancipated form. The curves of her face had changed, cheekbones now sharply prominent, with blood trickling down one side of her bruised face. Yet even in the darkened bar, beneath the strands of her disheveled hair, he could see her fiery brown eyes still burning. 

“Inyri,” he managed to gasp out, although he needed no confirmation. 

“Wes,” she said simply. Her voice had changed; it was now raspy and hoarse. 

Glancing at the glasses still hanging from the bar, he idly wondered if the water utilities still worked and whether he should offer her a drink. “Inyri, I…” 

His mind searched through everything he had regretted not saying to her, trying to choose which to say first, which would attach this presence to him and make her real. But as his memory flooded with mixed emotions, his battle trained reflexes noticed the heavy blaster rifle hung on her shoulder, the jet pack strapped to her back, the helmet in her hand. Abruptly, the image of his angel returned collapsed as he connected her armament to the legion of commandos now scouring the last bits of resistance from Coruscant under the command of another Rogue once thought lost. 

“So, how’s Pash?” Wes spat, his malice surprising the both of them. 

Inyri blinked. “Why you stupid Kowakian monkey-lizard! After everything, you ask how _Pash_ is? Go to hell.” She turned her back to him, striding towards the door. 

Dropping the holo, he lunged after her, grabbing her by the arm and spinning her around. “Inyri, stop.” 

She glared at him with those sharp brown eyes and Wes felt the years peal back to happier times. 

“Inyri, I just don’t know what to say,” he said softly, searching for the words. 

Smiling sarcastically, she broke free from his grip. “That’s Wes Janson, ladies man. For everyone else, suave compliments and Ewok jokes. For me, a swift kick in the gut and silence.” 

“I just never can find the words,” he explained, not meeting her eyes. “I wrote you a letter once, but I never sent it.” 

“Great Janson, I’ll give you points for intent, but we’re going to have to work on effort. Maybe we’ll try again in another ten years or so.” She turned her back to him again. 

Stepping off to the side in case Inyri decided to char broil him with that jet pack, Wes attempted his explanation again. “I thought you were dead, I’m just surprised to see you is all.” 

Inyri snorted. “I almost did die. After my engines flared out, I set my ship down hard. Hobbie would have been proud; XJ-Wing parts scattered all over and me bleeding in the center of the mess. I crawled out of it and somehow ended up here. Made myself a little hideout in your old office, and waited to heal or to be rescued.” More quietly, she added, “Sometimes the holos were the only things that kept me going. I kept looking up, seeing all those faces urging me to live so I wouldn’t become one of them. I even occasionally looked at your holo, wondering how you were doing. Not that you’d care how I was doing.” 

“Part of me died when I hear you were missing,” he said softly. “I never stopped hoping you were alive.” 

She ignored him, continuing her story. “A patrol came through one night and noticed me. I thought I was destined for the sacrifice pits, but it turned out the Shamed One was actually working for one of those crazy Wraiths. After I revealed who I was, he put me in contact with Pash and Page so I could lend what talents I could to the cause. And now that everything has ended happily ever after, I can finally get off this Sith forsaken planet.” 

“Don’t go,” Wes said firmly. This time, he wasn’t going to remain silent. He could no longer live without her knowing his true feelings. This time, it would be different. This time, he would change her mind. “Inyri, I love you and I don’t want you to leave. Please, stay here with me.” 

“You don’t mean that.” 

He knew she must have heard these words a dozen times, from Thyne, from men through the years intent on using her. He meant those words with every bit of conviction; he just had to prove it. “I made a mistake the day I let you return to the Rogues without a fight. I don’t want to spend another moment of my life without you. When you’re not around, Ewoks aren’t funny anymore.” 

She raised a dark eyebrow. “I make Ewoks funny?” 

“Well,” he considered with a grin, “they’re always funny. I just can’t enjoy their humor without you around.” He reached out, offering her his hands. 

“Janson without Ewoks, I suppose the galaxy can’t operate without Janson having his Ewoks.” She accepted his hands, pulling him closer, studying his still youthful face. 

“Nope,” he said wrapping his arms around her. “There are four things a Janson must have to operate efficiently. Five, really. First, he must have Ewoks. Second, he must have a Hobbie. Third, he must a Wedge in order to use the Ewoks. Fourth, he must have an X-Wing and a blaster.” He held her tightly, feeling the sharp bones of her emancipated body. Tightening his hold, he wished he could erase the years they had spent apart. 

Inyri pulled back from the embrace. “And the Fifth? Or is the last one two parts?” she asked with narrowed eyes. 

“Oh, the Fifth is the most important one of all,” he said softly, gently taking her chin into his hand and removing a droplet of blood from her cheek tenderly with his thumb. “A Janson must have his Inyri.” 

Her lips were cracked and rough, and the salty taste of blood lingered, but to him there could be no sweeter lips. 

They broke apart, hesitant to continue out of fear of what was to come. 

Inyri spike first. “I suppose you’re going to stay here, on Coruscant, and fix up the bar.” 

“Yes, that is if you don’t mind living here. We could always move if you’d like,” he replied, uncertain of what she expected. 

A smile touched her sweet lips. “Coruscant’s fine. I think this place is growing on me. It sort of reminds me of home.” She wrapped her arms around him, obviously relishing in the sensation of being held. “But there will have to be some changes around here.” 

“Changes?” Wes questioned, glancing around at his beloved bar. He had planned on removing the orange slime, even though it matched the Rogues’ orange flight suits rather well. 

“For example, where am I in all of these holos? I couldn’t find myself in a single one.” 

“That’s because I never needed a holo of you,” he teased, bringing her hand to his chest. “I always carry an image of you, right here in my heart.” 

Instead of melting back into his embrace as he expected, he was surprised as laughter racked her body. “Nice try Janson, but I saw the drawer in your office.” 

He frowned. “What drawer?” 

“The one with all the holos of me in it. And the rather sweet napkin you never sent,” she replied, nuzzling back into his embrace. 

Breaking their kiss, Wes whispered into Inyri’s ear. “Remind me to kill Hobbie when I get the chance.” 


	6. Part VI: Whole

Part VI: Whole

(After the Unifying Force)

“Ugh, this stuff is disgusting!” The cry came from Table Five. Three pilots wearing patches identifying as part of Blackmoon Squadron sat with glasses of an orange fizzing brew. One had just taken a sip and spat it out on a neighboring Sullustan. The Sullustan glared, but made no move to avenge his honor or change his seat. The small bar was too busy for either, with throngs of pilots gathering to toast the rebuilding of Coruscant. 

Wes threaded his way through the crowd, managing to avoid treading on the toes and tentacles of his patrons. He walked past the Blackmoons, he stopped long enough to tease the pilots. “That’s our special Borleias Brew you’re getting all over my floor, the drink of choice among the Heros of Borleias. Don’t you three even know your own squad’s history?” 

As he continued towards the bar, he glanced discreetly back to observe the three pilots make a toast and then down their glasses, faces turning greener by the minute. Chuckling, he deposited the empty glasses he had been caring in the sink and grinned at the bartender. “Kids these days, can’t even hold their military grade rotgut.” 

“Just because you were crazy enough to drink the stuff doesn’t mean you should be serving it to our clientele,” Hobbie scolded him as he prepared a fancy pink colored drink complete with a slice of sunfruit. 

“I wouldn’t have had to drink the stuff if you had brought that Ralltiirian stuff like I told you to,” Wes sniffed indignantly. 

“You try running a bunch of refugee camps and see where smuggling alcohol through a war zone falls on your priority list,” the blond pilot scowled.

“At the top of course,” Wes shot back. 

“Ah hem,” a voice came from behind Wes. He winced, causing Hobbie to smile slightly, and then turned around. Inyri stood before him carrying a tray of drinks. 

“Care to rephrase that?” she asked sharply. 

“At the top of the list, right after you, dear,” Wes said sweetly. 

“That’s better,” Inyri remarked approvingly. She thrust her laden tray into his hands, “Be a dear and take this over to Table Twenty.” 

“Yes dear,” Wes muttered without real malice. As he began dodging patrons again, he started to whistle an old Taanabian dancing melody. 

Hobbie smiled as strains of the happy tune reached his ears. He tossed another glass on the bar and poured a shot of what he knew to be Inyri’s favorite drink. “To your health, good lady,” he said, sliding it down the bar until it stopped perfectly in front of her. 

Glancing down at it, her lip pulled up in a half smile. “Do you tip all of your waitresses with shots?” 

“Only the ones that keep Wes in line,” Hobbie replied, an easy smile remaining on his face. 

“My pleasure,” Inyri said before downing her drink. 

Holding the small glass, she leaned against the counter and surveyed the bar. With many choosing not to return to Coruscant, like the family who once ran the grocery next door, Wes and Hobbie had taken the opportunity to expand the bar. Wes had even painted the new walls the same blinding orange color of the slime that had once coated them. 

While the amount of wall space had grown, sadly they looked no sparser than before. New holos had been added, displaying the Rogues that had fought at Dantooine, defended Borleias, and conquered Coruscant once more. During her first few days assisting Wes and Hobbie, she had noticed the occasional pilot toasting a certain holo. Some even demanded a certain booth in order to be closer to the friends they had lost. For these pilots, the Rogue Roost was a place to mourn. Others came in squadrons, toasting an old comrade found alive, or the fact that anyone was left alive at all. For these, the Roost was a place to celebrate life. 

Wes returned, his tray now empty. Setting it down, he stood behind her, wrapping his arms around her as they surveyed the bar together. “You know, I never wanted to come in here back when Gavin used to bring the rookies here. I was afraid.” 

“Afraid of me?” Wes asked. 

She nodded slightly and then leaned further back against his chest. “That, and I was afraid of the holos. Of seeing Lujayne and the others.” 

Inyri could feel him shift behind her, trying to get into a position where he could see her face. “Are you still scared?” 

“No. The bar has sides, doesn’t it? It can look so sad with all the holos, but people are happy here. Or, it can look cheerful with everyone celebrating, but someone will be in the corner mourning a lost friend. It has two sides, just like it’s owners.” She turned in his arms and looked at him, raising her chin slightly to meet his eyes. 

“Sides? Who, me?” His brown eyes twinkled in amusement, but she could tell that he had noted the seriousness in her comment. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, I’m cheerful all the time. The dual nature is just the external expression our conflicting managerial approaches. The depressing part is all Hobbie.” 

“That’s not true and you know it.” She slapped at his shoulder. “You can be just as depressing as he can, just like how he can be as funny as you. But the side you show depends on who’s around you, just like the bar.” 

“Hobbie can never be as funny as me.” 

Inyri smiled at his indignant expression. “I bet he could, given the right circumstances.” She wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders. “It took me to make you happy again, maybe he needs a girl.” 

“You want to get Hobbie a girl?” he asked doubtfully.

She rested her head on his shoulder. “Consider it part of your revenge.” 

“You know, he’d be miserable not being miserable,” Wes said thoughtfully. “Let’s do it. Maybe we can even find him a charming female Ewok. You’re brilliant, you know that?” 

She snorted and raised her head, giving him one of her stern expressions. “I’m your better half.” 

His lips curled in a smile as he raised her chin gently with his hand. “And together, we’re both whole.” 

They kissed. 

_The End_


End file.
